You’re
sweet, untouchable, marble
and solid. it’s always to you
that I turn. you’re a fast-pace
runner, streaking joy through
my street, your bicycle wheel
click-clacking the play card we
pegged on your spoke. remember,
how we spoke on the roof, drank
tea. remember that? remember me?
you’re the touchstone, the reference
the referee, always with some sage
wisdom, your old Cherokee
blood turning in your vein
versing down your arm, the steel
plate that says, Someone here
died. When you died, I died too,
I felt it, felt you leaving shouted
No! and you returned as if by some
magic incantation I had conjured
you home. Touch stone, never leave
say you’ll always be with me.
Twin, thin, greyed and lovely
cousin, brother, lover. I turn
to you, in the night, in the day
light I sway and when I fall it is
you who is there to break it
as if you know I would shatter
on impact. you’re the one,
the number one fan, the one
who always understands the sparks
that light so bright to you they
are the Champs Elysees, they say
all roads lead to Paris. I see you
biking fast around the columns,
lighting up the night.
